Reasons and Escapades
by GoForTehGig
Summary: This is Sam's Year After Dean Went to Purgatory. -Post S7, AU- Sam was lying to Dean's face when he said he left hunting during the year Dean was in Purgatory. However, the truth would be more damaging than the lie. Samelia.
1. Reasons and Escapades

Dean was right, of course. Sam had run away from hunting because of a girl. Dean, it could have been argued, had also run away, two years ago, because of a girl.

The difference was, of course, that he had _tried_. Tried to raise Sam, tried to bring him back. As Dean understood it, Sam hadn't tried at all. Sam had run.

Well, in reality, of _course _Sam had run. Back when Gabriel had been messing with his mind, when Dean had died over and over, Sam had finally snapped. Finally ran.

Except that Sam had run _to _hunting. He was as bad as soulless and later suspected that during that time, his soul had at the very least been stifled—when Dean dies, a part of Sam dies as well, he supposed.

What had really happened during that year was a bit different than Dean had assumed. Sam had tried to get Dean back, he really had. The problem was that he tried too much. The drunk escapade into Hell where he rescued Meg, for example, and the very sober flee from it. He had a few monster hookups that kept him posted and had become allies with the very beasts he had grown up killing, by the end of the year, which Dean would have never allowed had he been alive.

So of course Sam said he had run and never looked back, of _course _he said that he'd actually taken Dean's words to heart. Because even Dean's reaction to _that _would have been better to his reaction to why Sam had George the Leviathan on speed dial, and why he had not taken the phone that Kevin had called on (because the phone had too many memories, Sam knew).

Dean had gone to Purgatory during that year.

Sam had gone to Meg.


	2. Chance, Memory, Heart, Rabbit, Soul

**A/N: So, your ploy is to alert this story enough so that I'm forced to continue writing it? Good idea. This is now a collection of oneshots. You're welcome.**

* * *

Had it not been for Dean Winchester, Meg wouldn't be trapped about as deep in Hell as the Cage, resigning herself to at least 400 years without a breath of fresh air.

Had it not been for a very drunk, yet determined, Sam Winchester, Meg would still be down there.

Had it not been for Sam's dog, Meg would have been all alone, hiding, in the wide world.

Sam had a wounded dog and no idea what to do with it. Meg had instantly become Dog's Best Friend (did dogs _like _the smell of Hell? _Did _they?) and had eventually taken him from Sam when he started bitching about some Amelia chick, left Sam a number, and returned to Wisconsin, dog in tow.

Two weeks later, Sam had shown up, mumbling something about the aforementioned Amelia chick not being impressed that he passed the wounded dog 'to a friend', and was taking it back.

Meg came with. She wanted to meet this Amelia. Not many people could attract Sam like this—there was, what, Jess and Ruby?—and neither of them came and helped Sam when he really needed it. Dean was gone for good. Everyone else was just…gone, and Sam had, as Meg understood it, run out of Rufus's cabin in Whitefish and screamed at the world for every injustice he had ever gotten, from the bruise in third grade given to him by the school bully to Leviathan in general.

After meeting the mystery girl, who happened to be the nurse that stitched Sam's dog up (Ahhhhh…), Meg agreed that Amelia was probably the best thing that had happened to Sam that year.

Once upon a time, hundreds of years ago for her, Meg was in love with Sammy Winchester.

For one second, for one, _shining _second, Sammy Winchester was in love with her.

And then reality rushed back—the orders to kill the Winchesters, the fact that Sammy had a special part to play in the Apocalypse, and the fact that she was too busy for a relationship—and that moment ended.

Looking at him now, lounging around and trying to be discreet in the animal hospital while watching Amelia out of the corner of his eye, Meg doubted he even remembered that time with the clarity she did.

Her talk with Amelia proved to be fruitful. "He's kind and sweet and shy," she said, grinning and checking Sam out from where he stood, busying himself with a magazine. "Why; you a friend or an ex or something?"

Meg laughed mirthlessly. "Or something."

"Ah," Amelia said, winking and rolling a wounded bunny on a stretcher down the hall. "How long have you known him?"

Meg considered. How long had it been Topside? "Seven…eight years," she said.

"So, tell me, since he won't—you think he's in love with me?"

Right there was the miracle of humanity. Right there would determine whether Amelia would continue pursuing this man who had run over a stray dog, or whether she would brush him off because of a word of a 'friend', even though she had known him for what, two weeks?, just because of another's opinion. Right there could be the chance for Meg to get Sam to leave town, and she could go along with him, just him and her and the dog, and possibly get another chance with a one-time crush.

She inwardly sighed. Had her time around the Winchester brothers softened her? She was supposed to be focused on revenge, right? Hurt Sammy where it mattered most, smirk and walk off, only returning when she had a suitable bargaining chip to be on his same side?

That was how it worked.

"Yes," she said, almost in a trance as she said it, not believing what she was hearing come out of her meat suit's mouth. "He's very much in love with you."

Amelia gave her a relieved, almost sappy smile, something that made her features brighten considerably. "Thank you," she said, wheeling the poor animal into ICU or someplace equally redundant to Meg. Animals like the rabbit were fated to die alone and in the cold, not fawned over by nurses.

Meg herself was fated to die alone and in the cold, and over and over again in Hell. She was fated to be force-fed to Hellhounds by Crowley, to be put on the rack for her disobedience to the King of Hell.

"I said," Amelia said again, "would you like to come out with Sam and I some time?"

Meg was startled. "Wh-why?" she asked. "Won't it be a date?"

Amelia smiled her wonderful, _amazingly heartwarming _smile. Meg had to stretch her mouth into some semblance of a small grin. "You've known Sam for a long time. We can all get to know each other, then—any friend of his is a friend of mine."

Meg looked at Amelia, not trusting herself to say anything. She wouldn't dare admit it, but her soul was probably as high as Heaven now with shock and sweet surprise. "Of course," she grinned. "I'd love to."

_Maybe I'm not fated to die alone and in the cold like a common animal, _she thought. _Maybe that's why people use their lives to heal animals—if the dregs of the Earth are cared for, what is there to say about the dregs of under the Earth?_


	3. The Art of Fighting and Making Up

**A/N: NaNo is upon us! So I make no promises about **_**anything **_**in November.**

* * *

"She _texted _you about the lunch invite?" Meg said incredulously. Oh, _this _was brilliant. "Say no!"

"I'm not—why do you care?" Sam shot back, shuffling around his motel room and plopping down on the bed. His phone was held protectively in his hands. "Why are you still _around_, anyway?"

"Why do you _think_?" Meg spat. "So you don't _screw anything up _without precious _Dean _around!"

"You don't care," scoffed Sam, clenching his phone now, knuckles almost turning white. "You would kill me in a heartbeat!"

"Aww, poor Sammy still mad over poor Jo?" Meg cooed, and then dropped the facade as soon as she formed it. "Sammy, listen _very closely now_. I may be a freaking _demon_, but I did take care of Clarence for lord knows how long without even being _asked _to."

"Well, you _are _in love with him," Sammy scoffed, though his tone now meant that he had calmed down some.

"That's not the point, Sammy-boy. The point is that maybe—just _maybe_—I'm actually on your side. …Wait, why are we having this conversation _now_? The lunch invite. That's what we're talking about. You're not going. End of discussion."

"I think we should have this conversation now," argued Sam. "The lunch isn't important. The reason why you're following me across the States _is_."

"So the lunch isn't important? Then _say no_," spat Meg.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it. The point is that for _some reason _she included _you _in the 'lunch' invitation, and she said that you should have mentioned it to me already. Tell me this, _friend_, if you truly are on 'my side', then why not tell me about a stupid lunch invitation? And why tell me to say _no_?"

Meg flinched inwardly, though her badass facial expression did not change. "Why do you think, Sasquatch? Because it's a _stupid invitation _from a _stupid human_."

"She said you loved the idea!"

Oh. Wait, what? "Wait, _what_?" Did she really say that?

"Yeah. What you don't seem to understand, Meg, is that this girl is important to me!"

"You've known her for _two weeks_!"

"I know when people are important to me in much less than two weeks." His voice was low now, and dangerous.

"Why are you angry at me?" said Meg in a calculating tone, tilting her head. "It's a _date _that I _would kill you if you went on. _For all the hundreds of years I've known you, you really _can _be naive sometimes."

"Wait, Sam blanched. "_Hundreds _of years? Wha—?"

Meg rolled her eyes, looking pointedly at the phone. "Answer your stupid text. Say no."

"WHY are we YELLING about a stupid damn TEXT!?" Sam yelled.

_Oh, Sammy, can you really be _that _naive? _"Sam," sighed Meg. "This is not about the text. This is about the _girl_. This is about your soul mate; this—this _Amelia_."

"You've no right to criticize my girlfriends," snorted Sam. "Not when _you _were one of them. Now, please, get out."

"You're _shooing me_?" Meg scoffed. "_Why _are you so angry with me?"

"Why wouldn't I be? You were involved somehow with my brother and his best friend disappearing into thin air—which is the _worst _way to go, by the way. Unnoticed. If _Crowley _had something to do with it; _you _also did. And now you're trying to subtly—the subtle part isn't working, by the way—influence my life. Why? _What _do you want me to do? Subtle isn't going to work, Meg. So just spit it out!"

"Sam, calm down," instructed Meg. "I'm not trying to get you to do anything. I am _saying_ that this Amelia is going to make you soft if you settle down with her. With hundreds of Leviathan out there—" she spread her arms wide, "domesticated _is not good_. You want her to get cut up like poor little Jess?"

Sam glared at her. "I have a demon knife."

"Go on, big boy. _Use it_. Convince yourself that sending me to Crowley wrapped and pimped is a good idea for anyone involved. Convince yourself that _I'm just another demon_. Go on, I dare you!" Her arms were still spread wide as she spat at him.

Sam looked at her blankly. He looked sickly and old, and his eyes—oh good lord, his _eyes_—were ancient and burdened and very, _very _pissed off. _Ridiculous. It's just a girl! _"I'm going to say yes to Amelia," he said in a measured tone, his attention returning to his phone.

"Why? Not gonna gut me?" sneered Meg.

"WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM!" Sam finally snapped. "Is it that maybe, you appearing just as everyone else left was the final breaking point for me? That maybe when you were so kind, so _sweet_, you never thought I could see right through you? When you followed me and helped me and pretended to gain my trust I didn't see how you were trying to influence me? Why did you—" He dropped his head into his lap. "Why did you have to come _back_ when everyone else left?"

Oh. "So this is what this is about," Meg said softly, all trace of anger gone. How could she hate Sam Winchester, really? It wasn't possible; not when one of them was not hiding behind a barricade of masks. She slowly walked over and sat down on the bed next to him. "It's about…oh."

Of course it wasn't about a stupid _lunch_, she chided herself. It was about Sam's innermost being and the situations he had just endured not long ago. He had learned from Dean well, how to stuff emotions and act strong for others' sakes. But he had come to Meg, that must have meant something. How had Meg not seen it? Her head was still reeling from what had transpired with Dick Roman when Sam came, and of course she had let him in—any enemy of Crowley's was a friend of hers, as it was. But Sam had come to her, so something had been completely off.

This was about Dean.

Wasn't it always? Every single time, every single argument, every single hunt and kill and comment and snide remark to Meg and every disgusted look her way when he thought she wasn't looking, it was about Dean. Because precious _Dean _would never stoop so low to interact with _monsters_. But Sam had, and even though Dean was dead and gone, it still ate at him.

_He thinks Dean will come back. He thinks Dean will show up at his door one way, like he always does, and sprinkle holy water and salt over them both and then life will go on as normal. He thinks so, and yet he came to me, because he needs someone to protect him._

_Oh my god, he needs someone to protect him._

Meg was suddenly hugging Sam Winchester, which was completely weird even for her, because she understood him—she _understood _him and she _empathized_.

"You know," she started, sniffling a bit, "Crowley and I weren't always enemies."

"Where are you going with this?" Sam asked, wiping the tears from his face, because of course he wouldn't be caught _dead _hugging Meg or _crying _on her shoulder.

"Somewhere that applies to you, I swear. We weren't always enemies, you know. Of course, as Azazel's daughter, I was sort of…above him. A lot above him. I didn't notice him, really, until he caught both Alistair's and Lilith's attentions simultaneously. It must have been something to do with his tendency to exorcise the partners he didn't like. He never played well with others. But then…he was Lilith's apprentice, you know, and as Alistair's apprentice, we were sort of supposed to be enemies. But we weren't. And I…I don't know _why _we weren't, not really, it was just that…I don't know. We were so alike.

"And then we were assigned to the same case, as insurance that our…_client _would be suitably taken care of. He got exorcised, though, and I thought I would honestly never see him again. I finished the assignment, of course, and was delayed quite a while—actually managed to wipe out a town in my anger that my partner had _gotten killed in front of my eyes_. But I went back Downstairs and he was there. Weak and wobbly and unable to go Topside for about 150 years, of course, but alive all the same."

"What does that mean?" coughed Sam weakly. "That Dean's just going to…_appear_ from wherever in Hell he is?"

"No," Meg said, "but if he really wants to, he will get back to you. Just you wait, Sammy. You Winchesters are a hard lot; he'll be back, just you wait and see."

"Then I shouldn't be around you," Sam said miserably.

"Sam, Dean _knows _I took care of Clarence for months while you were off doing other, more _important_, things. He's not going to gank you for being with me!"

"But I'm—I'm not—"

Meg plucked the phone out of Sam's slightly shaking hands. "What are you doing?" Sam sighed.

"Answering the text. Saying yes," Meg said lightly.

Sam looked at her in shock. "I just had a bitch fit about you and you dared me to kill you. Why would you suddenly say yes to her?"

Meg smiled at him. "Because I told her I would. On a much better day, I was friends with your girlfriend. On a much better day I said yes. On a much better day I enjoyed your presence. And I understand, Sam. You're going about your problems all wrong, but I _understand_."

"Understand what?"

"You, Sammy dear, are going through a Leviathan-induced midlife crisis."


	4. Lunch With Friends

"All right, hold still," said Meg, "you'll be fine. Just _hold still_."

"It's _a date_," Sam said. "Like, _a date_. I don't know…I don't…"

Meg just looked at him, trying to adjust his tie. "Sammy, a _date _is with two people. This is a lunch with _friends_. What are you, twelve? Suck it up and act like you're an adult. Stop whining."

"But I…this is _Amelia_. Meg, I _like _this girl." Meg wasn't looking, she was trying to make sure he looked impeccable (it was a 'lunch with friends', she had tried telling him, not that he listened or anything, so there he was, dressing up for the occasion in his Fed suit because he didn't have anything else _and _he was too fidgety to tie his tie so Meg had to do it), but she was sure he had on the slightly exasperated, completely _adorable _puppy-dog look on his face that pleaded for her to understand him. "It's got to be…"

"Perfect?" Meg said dryly. "Dumbo, shut up or you'll trip over your shoelaces. Does lil' Sammy have a _crush_?"

"Shut up," he said in mock-seriousness, and Meg rolled her eyes, stepping back to try to see if he looked 'perfect' for his 'lunch with friends'.

And then it struck Sam, and he sobered up a bit.

Meg was replacing Dean.

"Sammy?" came Meg's voice. "_Hello, _earth to Sam. You look_ fine_. What's got your panties in a twist?"

"Just…nothing," Sam said, rather breathlessly, trying to get it out of his head. Nothing would replace Dean, Dean was gone, Dean was not coming back, he was _dead _or something and Meg was not _replacing _Dean. She just happened to have the same devil-may-care attitude about her that merely _resembled _Dean's, and she was most definitely _not _Ruby.

Ruby was possibly the only other person that had replaced Dean in Sam's life.

Jessica didn't count.

Did he have a serious girl problem or what?

"And, for the fourth time, you're done, we've got like fifteen minutes to get there, are you just going to stand there and make me drive Dean's Impala and go on my own?"

Dean's Impala; nothing would ever change. _Couldn't_ ever change.

"No, no, I'm coming," Sam said, fishing around on his motel drawer for his car keys.

"Already got them, Sammy," Meg said, and Sam uttered a 'thanks', took them from her, and started out the door.

As they got into the Impala, he said, "You're not going to change clothes or anything? Your hair, _I swear_, is still wet."

Meg smirked in a distinctly Meg-ish way. "I think we're past first impressions, Sammy. I don't have to impress your girlfriend at the moment. …You going to start the car or what?'

"Oh, right," Sam said, as if an afterthought, and started the Impala.

Meg sighed. Crush or no crush, Sam would be Sam.

They entered the diner, and Amelia waved at them from a window booth. They sauntered over, Sam looking like a Fed (his badge was probably in his inside pocket in case of an emergency) and Meg looking like she'd just gotten out of the shower and had forgotten to comb her hair.

"You look…fancy," Amelia said to Sam, eyeing him thoroughly.

"And you look nice," Sam said, smiling at Amelia, who had dressed up but obviously not to the degree in which Sam had. Meg gave a warm smirk at Amelia and motioned with her eyes to Sam, saying very clearly, _you two obviously like each other._

Amelia slightly blushed. _Sammy goes for the modest ones, doesn't he?_ Meg chided to herself.

After they'd ordered Meg found that Amelia had a talent of directing the conversation in non-awkward ways (or maybe it was just because the two were obviously infatuated with each other and would always hop to responding to what the other would say). "So, the dog," she started out saying. "Is she doing well?"

"You see her every other day," chuckled Sam. "I think you've got a pretty good idea how she's doing."

"Yes," Amelia rolled her eyes, smiling, (and _good lord _how they acted like shy teenagers around each other), "but you're around her more often. She likes you, right?"

"Um, yeah," Sam smiled, and motioned to Meg, "but she seems to really like her."

"Good with animals?" Amelia asked Meg.

"No, not really," Meg admitted, "but he just sort of latched onto me and wouldn't let go."

"What's her name?" Amelia asked, and Sam opened his mouth to say _We didn't name her yet_ but Meg beat him to it.

"He's not really familiar with dogs and good names for them, so he hasn't yet," Meg entered into the conversation in more of a gushy tone than she would have preferred (she had a reputation to uphold as knife-wielding gun-slinging badass demon, after all—or did that get tossed out the window when she became Permanent Dog Pillow?), "and we were actually wondering if you had a good name for her."

"Oh," Amelia said, looking rather slightly confused at the question, "I-I sort of always thought she looked like a Dodger, to be honest."

"Isn't that a dude's name?" Sam asked.

"I had a female dog named Damascus once," Meg recalled, and Amelia sent her a look of amusement and Sam did as well, slightly under-shadowed with the almost unnoticed revelation that it was a hellhound; "_yes_, like the city. She was as girly as they come."

"Never knew you were the dog type, _especially _the girly dog type," Sam said, and in his expressions said, _Seriously? A girly hellhound?_

"Well, my—my ex, I suppose he is, always used to curl her hair before taking her out," Meg said.

"Your ex?" Amelia pounced on the information, grinning like a housewife in a gossip group, and Meg averted her eyes. Sam was slightly grinning, leaning back in his seat, because _obviously _this was one of those girly moments when one of them shares past memoirs with the others in a rather discreet way, half-hoping-but-not-really to have them not eagerly try to rip it apart, which of course they do. He would never understand the feminine mind or train of thinking.

Especially if it was _Meg._

And…was Meg becoming a _chick_? This was something Dean would always bring up, if Meg ever dared to be like this around him, which brought up a good point—what was Meg doing? She was a demon, by definition she _was not human_, and yet she was acting not only _human _but _normal_.

It was possible that Meg was barefaced lying when she mentioned about not needed to impress Amelia for Sam's sake.

It was the weirdest friendship Sam had ever seen, and probably one of the only ones he could—possibly—keep.

"Yeah," Meg got a far-away look in her eyes, as if trying to nostalgically recall some memories of a past love, when Sam knew that she was trying to not scowl or curse or blink black or sniff around for the umpteenth time to try to detect his minions' whereabouts in front of Amelia.

"I need a name, age, description, _details_!" Amelia almost crowed, and the food was delivered to their booth. It wasn't much of a distraction from her new goal: _dissect my boyfriend/crush's friend_.

"Well, he's yea tall and I…" Meg caught sight of Sam grinning ear-to-ear into his burger and immediately switched into the abrupt, dead-set, shrewd Meg that she always was. "I think we're going too far into a chick-flick moment as I can stand."

Amelia slightly pouted but started poking around her pasta.

Sam never was good at starting conversations but he said, "So, um…Dodger? Damascus? What did we decide on?"

"Danny's another good 'D' name," Meg said.

"Or Daphne," Amelia shrugged.

"Or just Dog," considered Sam. Meg and Amelia just exchanged looks, and simultaneously sighed and rolled their eyes. _Men_, they seemed to telepathically say.

(Later Sam would tell Meg she really had turned into a chick because of her time on Earth. Meg would then proceed to tell Sam a detailed gory story about how she grew to power in Hell while cussing him out and looking completely undignified and unlike the person she had been in the diner—_good first (or second) impressions_, Sam reaffirmed in his mind, but from that point on he always eyed Meg when she said things like she wasn't the _real _Meg or was missing part of her, the mellow part that she had showed while being with Amelia and sharing chick moments.)

"So," Amelia tried to restart some semblance of a talk, looking at them rather expectantly, "how did you two meet?" She said it in the same way someone would ask a couple how they met. Both of them did a double take and Sam spoke up first.

"Well," he said, unsure of how to lie about this on the spot (especially if Meg naturally had to add made-up details to the story), so he basically stuck to the truth as much as he could. "It was about seven years ago, and I was running away."

"From…" prompted Meg, remembering the centuries ago for her, back when she had a different meat suit. She liked that one better, but the one she was currently wearing could give a _mean_ death glare.

"My brother," Sam said, voice catching on the last word. Meg almost winced in sympathy, not that she was sympathetic or anything—_I didn't like Dean Winchester to begin with. _She could have gone as far as to saying that she didn't really like any of the Winchesters—Daddy Winchester especially, because he was the chief part of the plan Gank Azazel And His Crew (which just _happened _to be her; she had a horrible life, she really did)—but Sam was beginning to grow on her.

Maybe it was just the dog.

Maybe she was being too much of a chick.

_Hello, runaway demon, _she tried to tell herself, tried to swallow down the lump in her throat that tasted of free will gone sour. Sam was continuing on his little narrative.

"He, ah—you know what? I don't even remember what we were arguing about then," Sam said, giving Meg a sideways glance and chewing on his lower lip. "I just finally had enough and got out of the car and turned around in the opposite direction with my backpack. Hitchhiker for a week, I was."

"And then you met me," Meg smiled. She turned to Amelia and fake-whispered; "He couldn't take his eyes off me for _months_."

Sam gave her a bitchface, cleared his throat and continued rather lamely, since there really wasn't much more of the story to tell. "And then we went our separate ways—I went back to Dean quickly, of course, and she just sort of left. But we met again."

"More romantic that way," Amelia smiled, leaning back in her chair.

"We weren't _together_," Sam said quickly, looking absolutely _adorable _with the harried, pleading expression on his face (_completely infatuated_, Meg thought smugly, _and he can't take his eyes off her_—if he spent the night at her place, did that mean that Meg could take the Impala out for a lone drive? It had always been a secret desire to drive that wonderful car one time or another—_focus, Meg_). "Not like that _at all_."

"Mm-hmm," Amelia smiled, "_sure_."

Meg looked mock offended as well. "Sammy, I can't believe you _implied _that about—about _us_! I…I just…"

For a demon bitch, Sam thought, she did pull off the so-pious-I'm-almost-a-nun act well. She was born demon, wasn't she? Then how did she act so _human_? (He was going to go on the assumption that demons didn't usually act like this.)

Within seconds, the other two were in quiet fits of laughter at Meg acting funny but not in her normal way, because she wasn't acting like a bitch. She was acting _nice_.

And the two were so _accepting _it almost made her heart break (_good job, Meg, don't get _involved_ with Sammy Winchester, or it'll end up killing you_).

That _would _have to be when the three demons entered the restaurant, wouldn't it? As quickly as they did, Meg's head snapped to them and she scowled, gripping the demon knife in her belt and feeling the demons' gazes land on her. She gave them a death glare in response (not quite sure how Amelia would take her flipping the bird at them—Sam _did _pick the modest ones usually, didn't he?) and turned back to look at Sam, several shades paler than normal.

He noticed her agitation more than usual and his face was crestfallen as he looked past her shoulder to the three men that had their eyes trained on her, though not black at the moment. "Do you…" His throat felt dry. This was going to end _spectacularly_.

"No, don't bother yourself," Meg said, because Sam was already halfway up.

"What's going on?" Amelia asked, looking between the two of them, lost.

"I've got to go, I'm sorry," Meg repeated once or twice. "Sammy, I'll just take the Impala's keys and go on my own. I'll be back within the hour to pick you up, okay?"

"You _sure _you don't need any help?" Sam asked. _There's three against one, _was his unspoken question. Begging. Pleading. Did he _care _about her survival and safety this much? What had this Amelia done to him, exactly? Meg didn't brush off the concern like she would have a month ago.

_There's only one knife_, she shrugged to him, _and I've got it_. "No, I'll be fine. I _swear _I won't get any dents on the Impala—sorry I've got to leave, Amelia, been nice talking to you but I've really got to go—Sam, I need the keys."

Sam took one long look at her before giving her the keys. "One hour?" he said in a measured tone.

Meg rolled her eyes. _One hour or I'll assume you're dead and have taken the Impala with you_ was the gist of what he'd not said. "Yes, I'll be on time. Sorry I've got to leave, can you like save the food I didn't eat for me later? Thanks and…you kids have fun on your date, now."

She left to Sam's remarks about how it 'wasn't a date' with a smile on her face, though she was gripping her demon knife tightly and motioning for the demons to bring the fight they had with her _outside where they could handle it like civilized monsters_.

They were Crowley's minions, obviously, and they were just a scouting team to see where she was or else there would be hundreds more, and she could take out a _scouting team_. She _was _Azazel's daughter, after all.

And get back in time for the end of Sam's date, she told herself. If I don't, then bad things will happen.


	5. Press 'Send' and Blow Up Everything

**A/N: Yes, I'm a horrible updater. DEAL WITH IT. ;) Oh, and I don't like asking people for reviews but I'd like at least 1 each thousand words. So review, peoples, and enjoy the chapter!**

When demons normally fought with one another, they did it with no huzzah or announcement or rituals. They didn't pretend that they were scared or apprehensive because they _weren't_, and never felt like explaining why they did so unless it was so extremely out of the ordinary that others might wonder if _they _were possessed.

When Meg had run away from hell, she'd left 'normal' chucked in a bin somewhere.

The three demons currently preparing to blast her with soul power, however, were still normal, and therefore by default didn't respond to her taunts or jeers.

"Why are you _here_?" Meg finally said through gritted teeth, backing up against a brick wall as they advanced on her. (_Advanced on her_—that line was so overused in her line of business. She leaned against a car, considering that, for a moment.)

Assessment: as a scouting group, they didn't have the strength of a battalion but nevertheless had enough to burn a single demon like her to the bars of the Cage, which was about as deep into Hell as you could get.

They didn't respond. Did she honestly expect them to?

There was no way she could run her knife through all three of those sons of bitches before they, for all intents and purposes, killed her.

The one on the farthest left, who obviously was trying to look mature and calm and collected (but Meg was always good at seeing through meat suits, he was a fresh young thing, probably elected to be here at random, and looked uncomfortable being back Topside), broke first and spoke up.

_Think he's cornered me, _was all Meg could think, grinning to herself, Lord knows why, because she still had hope.

She still had hope.

"Lord Crowley sent us to exterminate vermin like you who disgrace the name of demon," the fresh young thing ground out.

Her cell phone vibrated, telling her she got a text. Keeping an eye on the oncoming trio, she slipped it out of her pockets and viewed the text, while saying nonchalantly, "How long did you practice saying that in front of the mirror, eh?"

It was from Sam, and it read in the usual impeccable punctuation of his, _If she asks, tell Amelia that you left because you had to meet your dad, and some crappy personal story about because he's mentally unstable you need to help him and visit him a lot. Doing ok?_

"We will destroy you and you will roast on the racks of Hell!" said the demon triumphantly.

Meg started tapping out a text as quick as she could on her iPhone. "Yeah…good luck with that, bucko."

They reached out their hands to her at the same time, and they began to glow as they let the souls chained around them shine through. Meg didn't even flick her eyes up, knowing she's be dead within five seconds. The souls would latch onto her being, pulling her straight to the Pit, not even passing Go or collecting $200 (such a shame, she could use the $200 to bribe her way off the rack).

Meg pressed 'Send'.

The demons' soul bazookas heated up to almost boiling.

The car next to them blew up in their faces.

One thing Meg could safely say about demons in general was that they usually did not react well to completely absurd surprises. The souls ricocheted off the wall, as Meg ducked behind another car and yanked out her knife, and came back to blast their faces. It then wasn't that hard to kill the disoriented demons, coming up from behind them and decapitating them without hesitation.

She stood there, panting with relief, as she wiped off the bloody knife on one of the dead meat suit's shirts and sheathed it. The damage had been minimal to the surroundings and if no one came (though Meg was never lucky so she'd better _hurry _to clean it up) she could clean everything up within a few minutes. Demon mojo paid off, after all.

Her cell phone vibrated again. Meg looked at it idly. The bomb that she'd just entered in the commands to blow up wouldn't be talking _back_, would it?

It was Sam, again. _I know you might think you did that discreetly but next time lead them further away, ok?_

_How r u txting n tlking 2 amelia at th same time!? _Meg typed back, glancing over her shoulder at the diner window, not that she could see Sam.

_Amelia's in the restroom, _he sent back. _You'd better leave before she comes back and notices you hanging around outside._

_Im leaving im leaving_, Meg texted irritably, walking over to the Impala and preparing to drive off.

_I really don't care what you're trying to do, but be safe, ok? _Sam texted her again. Meg glanced in the window of the diner again from force of habit.

Normally she would have texted something sarcastic back about Sam only caring about his car, but instead she just texted, _I always am, Sammy, _and drove off.

Forty minutes with nothing she had to get done, and what was Meg going to do?

Oh, that's right. She's going to go back to the motel and research demonic omens, trying to see where Crowley currently was.

Meg shook her head, sighing. _Never a moment off, _she thought to herself. _Never a _single moment _off_.


	6. Sleight of Hand

**A/N: I'm so awesome with updates; I'll give myself another cookie. This chapter is here to show that, of course, Kevin's story wasn't true either. So enjoy (and review)!**

Crowley and Kevin Tran were in the same room, looking at each other with fire in their eyes. Kevin was so young and his jaw was trembling, palms curled into fists, shivering, hunching into himself and casting glances—horrible, _wonderful_, pleading glances to the exits of the room.

Crowley sighed to himself. _You had too much fun, boys, _he tried to chide his minions with his eyes, _you _broke _the damn bastard._

"Leave us," he chose to snarl at the two. They nodded and left, though Crowley noticed the looks they casted on the young prophet before they went.

Crowley sighed. "Sorry about that," he said to Kevin. "Please, take a seat."

"Let me go," Kevin pleaded. Crowley detected the waver in his voice, how he was so scared, so young, and this wasn't his fight, out of his league—it would be a mercy to just kill him now, Crowley supposed.

Wait. What? Did he just think about the prophet's _well being_? What was he, human? The prophet was on the other side, as well, he was seriously not thinking about what would be 'best for him'. They had a job to do.

"Are you going to torture me now?" Kevin asked again, bringing Crowley abruptly into the present.

_Poor lad, what with his view of my kind and all, _thought Crowley.

"If you're not, please let me go."

Crowley shook a blade out of his sleeve and into his palm, waving it at the boy, whose breath caught in his throat and whose gaze wavered at the sight of it. Crowley inwardly snorted. _Just a bit of sleight-of-hand, no need for him to seem so impressed. _"Just…shut up," he said wearily. It had been a long day, trying to bargain with and not completely obliterate the Acting King of Hell into actually _running _Hell and not drinking all of Crowley's liquor cabinet; and suddenly Crowley realized what was missing. He snapped a bottle of Scotch into existence and half-heartedly offered it to his prisoner—no, his _business partner_.

Kevin looked at the bottle, repulsed, and Crowley shrugged, opened it and swigged it, shoulders leaning forward in a relieved slump.

"Look, Kev," he started, "it's been a long day, so whatever you're upset about is nothing personal." You just happen to be the only prophet we have, was left unsaid.

"Are you going to torture me or not?" Kevin asked again, not really understanding Crowley.

"No," growled Crowley. "I'm not. So will you stop bloody groveling already?"

Kevin shut his mouth, stopped quailing, and tried to look mature.

"Now," said Crowley, massaging his forehead, "I have a business proposition to offer you."

"A what?" Kevin stared blankly (still wondering if Crowley would magic his knife out from wherever it went).

"The best and the brightest, they said," grumbled Crowley, rolling his eyes. "A business proposition, lad. Means I'm offering you a job."

"But…you capture me, let your men have me, and then offer me a _job_?" Kevin's voice was pleading and confused. It would be a _hell _of a lot easier to kill the bastard now and grab whoever the next one turns out to be—at least _they _won't have the notion that Crowley was their enemy.

Demonkind, however, he couldn't speak for.

Crowley stowed his blade in his sleeve and brought out a tablet using his well of magic tricks he had on hand—pulled the tablet out of his top hat, in fact, and slapped it down on the table in front of Kevin.

Kevin jumped. "Wh-what is this?" he asked.

"It's another so-called Word of God," Crowley said. "Personally, it looks like something Dante scratched out in his spare time. Anyway, we've had it for quite a while, buried somewhere, but only with the other one did we realize what it was, and dig it up, et cetera."

"You need me to translate it," supplied Kevin.

"Bingo," smiled Crowley. He took another gulp of Scotch, his regular pretentious air around him almost gone. If anyone there had known Gabriel, they would have said Crowley sounded just like the demon version of him. "So what do you say, Kevin? Up for the job?"

"How much does it pay?" asked Kevin, calculating in his mind.

"Your life, for one thing," Crowley said, but there was no threat behind it; he was just too damn _tired _to make it.

"What else?" said Kevin, eyeing the tablet as if it was a piece of garbage.

"Your mother's life?" Crowley offered weakly.

Kevin grabbed the bottle of Scotch from the demon's hands and took a huge gulp of it, spilling down his face and into his nose and off his chin, before giving it back. "What else?" Kevin asked again.

Crowley actually had to think about it. "Eh… mebbe… twenty grand? Canadian—'s all I got, once the treasurer of Hell got wind we were being penned up there by Roman, and he traded our entire bank into Canadian dollars."

Kevin's mouth opened a little. "Deal," he said immediately, grinning at the prospect of $20,000.

"Well? Start with the title," Crowley said impatiently, waving at the tablet.

Kevin took it into his hands and stared at it, blinking and refocusing his eyes.

And gulped, turning a bit green at the title.

"D-demons," he said slowly.


	7. Previously, Meg Got a Job

When Meg came around with the Impala to pick Sam up, he offered to take Amelia home but she had driven to the diner so she said she'd drive herself back. They hurried in, with Meg at the wheel, and as soon as the doors were slammed shut Sam asked, "So what was all that back there?"

"What was all what?" Meg feigned ignorance.

"You know what I mean—the _demons_," Sam growled, eyes slightly narrowing. "What were _demons _doing on your tail?"

"_My _tail? Sammy darlin', a few things you need to know about demons—ever since Crowley mojo'd Kevin off, demons have been on your trail. It's sort of only natural."

"What. Happened. Back. There?" Sam spat out. "You almost died. They would have come after me if they'd killed you, and _I _would most probably be dead."

"No you wouldn't," snorted Meg. "It's a diner, there's _ample _amounts of salt around. And you're not worried about me—oh, are you worried about Amelia darling?"

Sam blushed slightly. "Maybe," he admitted.

"That's cute," Meg said, twisting the key in the ignition and starting the Impala up. "But for future reference, you don't have to worry about me."

"Oh, and that as well—what _exactly _happened back there? A car in a spot half-concealed from the diner _blowing up _doesn't just randomly happen if you had been cornered. It wasn't _their _car, either."

Meg rolled her eyes. "Sammy boy, you didn't think I wasn't prepared for Crowley's minions to come after me?"

"Yes, but—_it was a freaking car blowing up_. Just how much do you know about the whereabouts of Crowley's minions?"

Meg seemed to consider his question, and then shrugged. "Nothing you wouldn't know if you were in my place," she finally said. "It's not as much as you would think. _Yes_, I knew they were going to be there. _Yes_, I rigged the car to blow up on my signal. _No_, I don't know where Crowley is, sorry. If I had you think I would have withheld that information? I know you want to send his ass to hell as much as I do."

"I don't know that," Sam said. "Convince me."

Meg stopped the Impala on the side of the road suddenly, turning on him. "What is _that _supposed to mean, 'convince me'? How am I supposed to _convince _you I hate Crowley as much as you? Maybe, oh, he hates my guts and whenever we meet he tries to drag me to Hell. Maybe, oh, the fact that I try to do the same to him. It's not some big orchestrated plot, you know. It's the _truth_. Now, is that all you have to ask me or can I continue driving to the motel now?"

Sam didn't answer, chastened, and Meg gave a satisfied grunt and floored the gas.

The only way Meg knew where Crowley's minions were was because she knew people high up in the ranks, people that had been a huge help when escaping with Sam way back when (it was _only _a few weeks ago, but good _lord _it had felt longer than that). They hadn't spoken since then (and 'they' meaning Meg and Diaz, who was currently stuck in a series of meetings Below, probably most of them concerning Meg and the Winchester left) but when they got back to Sam's motel room (they both shared it, though it was 'Sam's motel room') Meg grabbed her cell and flipped it up, speed dialing his number.

"Hello?" a deep voice greeted her. Meg could almost envision his meat suit of choice, a tall young man with a round face, pale skin, large ears and glasses. "Who is this?"

"It's Meg," Meg said.

His voice became hushed. "Meg, glad to hear from you—not a good time. I'm in the middle of a meeting right now."

"Figured you would," Meg drawled. "Look, all I have to say is that the Winchester is getting tetchy about how I know so much about Crowley. I'm not, under any circumstances, going to tell him about you, so that might create some problems. So, um, do you have a safe house anywhere? I have a feeling I'll really need one in a few."

"Not at the moment—look, Meg, in a _meeting_. Need to _hang up_. Get back to you in a few, yeah?" With no warning, he hung up on her.

Meg flipped her phone shut and growled to herself, "Nice talking to you too, Diaz."

"Tell me about what?" the familiar voice came from the doorway, and Meg started. Sam leaned against it, looking rather interested. "No, don't make yourself uncomfortable, please just sit down and tell me. Who is this Diaz you called? What does it have to do with Crowley?"

Meg's throat was dry—all in all, not an unusual occurrence. She _did _want to tell Sam at least _some _of the story; after all, Sam knew there was more to what had happened to Meg than just being stuck on the rack until Sam barged in and dragged her back (which was not how it happened, but Sam was drunk at the time and Meg didn't feel like telling him _that _part in detail). The one thing she was _not _going to tell him under _any _circumstances was the Dean being in Purgatory part.

Diaz had been a rather large part of Meg's story.

_It was a momentary relief from constant pain. Meg had only been Below two days at the most, and someone had yet to get Crowley—someone was going to get him now. Meg was breathing heavily, sagging on the rack and coughing shining blood as her soul tried to recover._

_She heard footsteps and saw feet at the bottom of her vision; pointy shoes, in fact, and couldn't force herself to spit on them or make a sarcastic comment about Hell's hospitality to the demon._

"_Are you Azazel's daughter?" the deep voice asked._

"_Check the soul tag," Meg groaned._

_It took a moment before he responded. "So you're…Meg, right?"_

"_You new or something? Yes, dumbass, I'm the Number One Prisoner. The seventy-plus guards around us mean anything to you?"_

_He ignored her sarcasm. "I'm not here to torture you, Miss Masters. I'm here to give you a message. Look at me."_

_Meg lifted her head to look at the man. There was almost no light but she could make out green-grey eyes and slick brown hair. The demon had a preference for prim and proper meat suits, then._

"_What's the message?" she rasped._

"_It's anonymous," he said, "but it's from a cult, I suppose you could say, whose sole mission is to exterminate Crowley."_

"_So Luci's old supporters?" Meg asked. There were a few of them, she knew, quiet and hidden in the shadows of Hell, always plotting and planning._

"_No, actually. Their message is to wait, because help is coming."_

_Meg looked around painfully; the guards hadn't moved from their respective spots, not even _blinked _at the messenger. "What's the name of this cult?" she asked._

"_The Roses," the man replied, and suddenly blanched. Psychic message, Meg could tell. "Crowley's coming. I must leave." Without another word, he disappeared._

_Crowley appeared in all his dignity as King of Hell, looking distastefully at Meg. He sauntered forward, a bottle of Scotch in his hand. Meg dropped her head to her chest, no more energy keeping her head up and a blossom of hope sprouting somewhere deep in her soul._

The Roses. Help is coming.

"_Well, well, well," Crowley tsked, taking a swig from his bottle, "Meg, Meg, _Meg_, how's it hanging? Enjoying the hospitalities of Hell yet? Ready for a—what's the phrase?—a 'rocking' ride?"_

"_Go to Hell," Meg groaned._

"_I own it, sweetheart," Crowley replied without missing a beat, the smirk still on his face. "Now, do you actually know why you're top priority here?"_

"_Because I'm your famous enemy, caught and locked up, and you want to show me off to all your friends," Meg shrugged verbally, listless._

"_Not quite, sweetheart," Crowley said, snapping his fingers (the décor must not be to his liking), and then they were sitting across from each other in his office, Meg shackled to her chair but her wounds healed and Crowley was pouring her a glass of Scotch._

"_Remember this place?" he mused. "We used to come in here all the time."_

"_Centuries ago," Meg dully reminded him, snatching the glass with her free hand and downed it in one gulp._

"_Same office," Crowley shrugged. "If we're on the topic of…us…then I want to say, for the record, it was a bit rude for you to dump me."_

"_We're not—aren't we talking about my status as Prisoner of War or something?"_

"_Probably," Crowley agreed, downing his own glass. "Just wanted to point it out. I'll be a good host now and ask how your stay has been so far."_

"_Not as good as last time," Meg growled, staring into the bottom of her empty glass and refusing to look at him. "Your minions seemed to have forgotten the meal service."_

"_Charming," Crowley laughed humorlessly._

"_What am I really here for?" Meg sighed._

"_You're on the Winchester's side," Crowley started, "in this mess of a war."_

"_So are you," shrugged Meg. "That's not the point."_

"_Yes, that _is _the point, let me get to it," Crowley rolled his eyes. "I actually _like _the buggers after all this time. What if I was to tell you Dean was stuck in Purgatory?"_

"_What if I was to tell you I already knew?" Meg replied nonchalantly._

"_Then I would say you're good," was Crowley's offhand remark, and Meg couldn't stop her smirk. "As much as I don't want to ask you this because I could get centuries of pleasure down here torturing you, I have a job offer for you."_

"_And it is…" Meg waited._

"_I need you to retrieve Dean Winchester from Purgatory," Crowley sighed._

"_You what?" Meg blinked blankly._

"_Don't make me repeat myself," Crowley growled._

"_What will happen once I achieve this?" Meg asked slowly._

"_You'll be put back on the rack so I can get centuries of pleasure torturing you. Look, you're the only one down here that cares even a bit about Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber aside from myself—and I'm not going to risk getting my hands dirty. It's a break from eternal punishment, so take it or leave it."_

"_What if I escape into the Monster Forest and stay there?" Meg snapped back, shrewd as ever. What was the real reason Crowley wanted to get her out of his presence? Any demon seeking Crowley's favor would undertake the mission in a heartbeat, there were plenty candidates unless—oh. Unless they were all dead from the attempt._

_Meg gulped._

_Crowley shrugged again. "It will be straight from here to Purgatory and back. If you want to get trapped in the Forest with millions of monsters who want a taste of demon flesh, be my guest. You know which option is worse."_

_That Meg did. She didn't even have to think about whether to refuse the offer or not; not with the knot of cleverness, half-formed ideas and hope bubbling in her chest._

"_I'll do it," she blurted, reaching for Crowley's Scotch to refill her glass._

_Crowley was surprised by her enthusiastic response. "That's a good girl. Now, someone will help you get ready and clean and I'll meet you in 15 minutes by the nearest door to the Forest, yeah?"_

_Meg nodded and downed her glass, and was whisked off to get ready for the job she had accepted._

"A few things," Meg finally said. "None of which is important. What _is _important, though, is exactly how the rest of your date with Amelia went while I was off saving our asses. Come on, spill."

Sam gave her an annoyed look that read _I know you're trying to change the subject_, but let it be. "It was…nice. We talked about a few things."

"Such as…?"

"Meg, I'm not giving you outlines of my _dates_. Don't we have more important things to worry about?"

"Like what?" Meg scratched her ear.

"_Like_," Sam repeated, "getting the location of where Crowley's minions are staked out and how to send them all back to Hell."

"Well, they're probably staked out _in _Hell," Meg said, but Sam wouldn't let her go any further.

"Hell doesn't open from just anywhere, does it? Demons can't pop there and back whenever they feel like it, can they?"

"Well, no…"

"Where are the doors usually located?" Sam prompted.

Meg shrugged. "I don't know. An intersection or a cemetery or something."

"Are there many cemeteries around here?" Sam asked.

"Well, no…" Meg said again.

"So every time they pop out of Hell they're going to walk from wherever the nearest cemetery is to wherever they're going to patrol? I don't think so, _especially _not with backwater Texan towns. There's got to be some motel they were bunking in—you did kill the entire patrol, didn't you?"

Meg nodded.

"Then all that will be left wherever they're staying is there stuff, maybe some clues to where the rest of the various patrols are." Sam looked at her like he had just received enlightenment (still excited about Amelia, huh?). "Come on, Meg, _think_. You know them better than anyone on our side. Where do you think they are?"

Meg shrugged helplessly. She had purposefully distanced herself from most of Hell's occupants growing up, she was _Azazel's daughter_, not some random roughneck. Where would they stay that was close? Motel or hotel? Camp out in the forest where they could draw protection spells without any questioning occupants? (After all, they couldn't kill _everyone _without Hunters getting involved.) "I-I don't know." _Think_, Meg. Wet-nosed kid, straight from Below, testing his sea legs with a trip Topside. Would he choose the most lavish place he could find, or try to brave it somewhere barely above the comfort level? "Motel, maybe?" Going for macho and bragging rights, possibly. Wanting to tell all his friends how he survived in a _motel_ Topside. A _crappy _motel, at that. Those were the people that Hell was sending out now, eh?

Meg tried to smile, but it ended up a grimace. She'd killed all the suitable ones working for Crowley, eh?

"Let's think," Sam was rambling, because he thought aloud often now—with someone aside from Dean in the room with him. "Small town. There's bound to be a Motel 8, I saw one on the way through… I haven't seen any others, have I? I've been everywhere easily accessible, so the only other option would be…"

Meg turned to look at him, both of them reaching the conclusion at the same time.

"They could have been here," Meg breathed.

Sam let out a huge breath in relief that the demons did not crash the door down one random night before Sam had bought replacement salt at the grocery store and laid the salt lines down.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Meg asked, tucking her demon knife in her coat's inner pocket. "Let's go hunt 'em out."


	8. Flashbacks leading to Fire

It was not altogether hard to find the motel room the demons had been staying in. Meg called it talent, Sam just looked at her and told her that _he _was the one that had smelled the sulphur.

Meg had just flipped him off and waltzed right into the room, the lock coming undone with a snap of her fingers.

Sam sighed and followed her inside, and stopped dead, mouth hanging open, gazing at the walls.

"I know. Impressive stuff, right?" Meg remarked, waving her demon knife at the papers adorning the walls. There was not a square inch of free space anywhere, with maps, printed posters, and tacks stuck in various things with thread connecting them all weaved across the higher portion of the room like a spider web. "This is why demons are better hunters than Hunters themselves," she said, "because we research _awesomely_."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked. "_We _research awesomely as well. How do you think we hunt?"

"Don't bother, Sammy—could _you _really string all that up there?"

"Well, no," he said slowly, "but how do _you_? How do you _reach _that stuff without a ladder?"

Meg disappeared and reappeared perched on the ceiling—somehow (Sam wasn't quite sure all the laws of physics were still intact with that move, especially those of gravity)—flipping through all the overlapping papers and running her fingers through the string to see where they connected. She tore off a paper and tossed it down to Sam. He caught the fluttering page.

"A map of Wyoming? What's this for?"

"It's the Devil's Gate Daddy tried to open up oh-so-long ago. Recognize it? That's where Dean shot him dead."

"And why do you have a picture of it?" Sam asked hesitantly. "It's locked up. Can't be opened except by the Colt—which is locked up as well. They're not _going _to get the Colt. So why would they want to focus on this?"

"Sammy," Meg sighed, running her fingers along the strings as if searching for something, "you'd think Sammy the first would make a Devil's Trap of sorts with his _name _branded on it and then make the key the _other _huge invention and A-bomb to demonkind? Really?"

"Well, that's what we did last time, with Jake and all…"

"Sammy." Meg stopped him, tearing off a piece of paper off of the wall. "It's not about the item itself, it's about it's power against demons. The Colt could kill anything, including demons. The only other thing with that much power is…" She let go of the piece of paper and it fluttered down into Sam's grasp.

He looked at it and blanched. "Ruby's knife," he muttered.

Meg flashed said knife in the air as he looked back up to her from the rough sketch of it. "But that would mean that's why they're after you…not because Crowley wants you dead, but because they need it to unleash…what, exactly?"

_The Roses, _she thought, but pursed her lips and shrugged as if she didn't know. Which she didn't, not really. "Something in Hell, something unable to come out otherwise. Beats me. But whatever it is, well, we don't want it coming out, not if it's too large to come out of any other door."

"Wait. Can't they just make another demon-killing knife?" Sam asked, brow scrunched up in confusion.

Meg snorted. "Even if they could, they wouldn't. A blade that could kill them eternally if someone else got their hands on it? They can't, anyways. Demons don't just have _souls _they can bind to anything. Demons don't have souls."

"But Ruby did," Sam said slowly. "Or else it wouldn't be her knife."

"Oh yes," Meg smiled, and shook the knife slowly, "and I can still feel it in here. She's angry, Sam. She's always angry. A few demons…well, the 'special cases' do. Trust me, you don't want to face any 'special cases'. Most of them are under lock and key right next to the Cage with no way for anyone to get to them or to do anything to them. So basically, this is the only thing in the universe that they need to suddenly release into the world. That's surprising as well." She hopped onto the ground, dusting herself off automatically. "They need to release them _now_, why _now_? Why didn't they grab the knife from Ruby before, when they had her? There was ample time they could have snagged it. They didn't, so it has been a rather recent development. A rather recent, very large development? Most things like that take several hundred years to gather energy except…"

Except for a few exceptions…

_Flash. Running, trying not to trip on the stones or have the living vines wrap around her legs. Slashing at everything that was in her way. Screaming bloody murder, trying to get away, her hair in her face, not daring to turn around in fear that she would lose the only seconds she had left._

"_What did you blow up!" demanded M'aren from her far left._

"_I didn't!" exclaimed Meg. "I just…"_

_She was interrupted by a roar, and something akin to a fireball flew over her head and they both ducked and scrambled behind a tree, resting for a second._

_M'aren looked at Meg. "Well, whatever you did," she said testily, "you managed to get a _dragon _on our tails. A dragon with a taste for demon."_

"_Why are you running too if it's only demon it has a taste for?" Meg asked._

_M'aren was silent, peering behind the tree. "Because the Roses will have my _hide _if they know what I've done. RUN!"_

"Meg? _Meg_? Are you okay?" Sam was shaking her slightly, peering into her slightly vacant eyes.

"Wha?" Meg scrambled to attention, gripping his forearms so hard her knuckles turned white. She cast a quick glance around and sighed briefly. The memory was nothing but a memory, and it was over. "I'm okay, I'm okay."

"What happened? You were talking and then it was like you were having a vision. You were keeled over and everything, shouting something about…was it Arwen?"

"Not a vision," Meg said, sheathing her knife and distancing herself from the Winchester. "Memory."

She brushed past him and opened up the door.

"Well, did it have anything to do with what we were saying?"

Meg turned around, shaking her head slightly. "No. Just…rough times."

"Do we need anything from this room or did we achieve what we came for?"

Meg nodded absentmindedly. "Yeah. Just like set it all on fire—not good luck to stay anywhere near where a demon made it's perch, ya know. I can _smell _hoodoo underneath the carpets."

"Wait, you want me to set the motel on _fire_?" Sam asked again. Cute, rather slow Sammy.

Meg rolled her eyes. "I'll go bust the fire alarms, duh. Wait about five minutes before doing it and I'll meet you by the Impala with our stuff, yeah?"

She left and Sam blinked, rather confused. Five minutes to wait until the motel completely burnt down…why was Meg such in a hurry to destroy the evidence of this place?

_Maybe_, something inside him said, _there's something here she doesn't want you to find._

Sam had five minutes, a bit less, so if he wanted to find anything out he needed to hurry. He began to scour the walls, tearing off paper and ripping down string and bits of Blu-Tak, looking for anything to do with Meg. And then he found it.

It was a small folder on top of the drawers, actually, and it was a folder of papers, articles, emails, and handwritten notes labelled _Azazeldaughter_.

_Did she not have a name before 'Meg'? _Sam thought, smiling grimly. He flipped through it, only catching that it mentioned Crowley many times and had pictures in grimy black-and-white of other people—meat suits of demons or people?

He didn't have _time _for this. He tucked it in his jeans and got to work destroying the rest of the evidence.

He met up with Meg a few minutes later as the motel was in flames, a crowd of people outside of it, the manager on his phone yelling to someone, probably about the sprinklers not working and the fire extinguishers all missing.

The Impala's trunk door was a bit hard to close, Meg told him cheekily.

Sam smiled back, and then his phone began to ring. It was Amelia. He answered it. "Hello?"

"Oh my god, Sam, the fire truck is racing down our street. Everyone says that it's your motel, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Sam smiled grimly. "Barely got back when it started. Recovered most of my stuff, actually."

"That's _amazing_, thank God," Amelia said and he heard the smile in her voice. "Is your friend, Meg, okay as well?"

Sam cast a sidelong glance at Meg, who was leaning against the Impala and gazing at the fire enveloping the motel with an expression akin to _pride _on her face. "W-well," Sam said, a bit disturbed. _Demon, _he reminded himself. They enjoyed burning. Or maybe it was just Azazel's family.

"That's double amazing," Amelia gushed, joy and relief in her voice. "Tell Meg hi for me, and that you're both _incredibly _lucky to get out alive. After my grandfather…well…"

"Well, what?" Sam asked in the concerned, soft and caring voice of his.

"Well, a few years ago he died in a house fire."

"I'm sorry," Sam said after a beat. "I suppose I'm extremely lucky to survive another 'house fire' because I'm part of the family, am I right?"

"Well…" Sam could hear the blush in Amelia's voice at being called 'part of the family'. Meg couldn't guess what they were talking about but smiled a bit—a _genuine _smile—at the 'part of the family' comment as well. Sam could almost hear her telepathic drawl, "Takin' big bold steps, aren't you, Sammy?"

"Yes, I suppose so," Amelia finally said. "Look, I have to go. You'll have enough to deal with with the fire truck and all. Good luck!"

"You too," Sam said, and hung up.

Meg just looked at him.

"Oh, shut up," he growled, and went around and opened up the driver's door in the Impala. "You getting in or what?"

"What?" Meg said.

"You've packed our stuff, right?" With Meg's nod, he continued. "So come on and let's get the hell out of here before the cops get involved."

"Where are we going?" Meg asked as she climbed into shotgun.

"I dunno, maybe the Motel 8 where Amelia's staying. It would be a nice surprise to her," Sam said.

Meg cracked a grin. "Does that mean that I _finally _get the room to myself?"

"Oh, shut up," he said playfully as he drove off.


End file.
